


Earthbound

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amputation, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Disabled Character, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Reformed Thinking, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, Whumptober 2020, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: When Steve Rogers crash-lands theValkyrie, his left leg is grievously injured. Help won't arrive for sixty-seven years.Coping with a failing leg just might make the rest of the twenty-first century seem almost easy.Then he meets the rest of the Avengers, and things get really complicated.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 36
Kudos: 242





	Earthbound

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: It occurred to me that there wasn't a specific tag to encapsulate this sentiment, so I wanted to state up front that Steve uses certain language in this fic (e.g. "lame," "broken") to describe his experience that are not reflective of the author's viewpoint towards these given circumstances ( _especially_ his attitude towards wheelchairs). 
> 
> I strove to keep the language in this fic as tame as possible, but it would be remiss of me not to disclaim Steve's self-loathing and self-deprecating attitudes and their takeaway messages at the onset. These messages form a fairly small percentage of the fic and are largely if not entirely reformed by the end of the fic, but they do exist. With that said:
> 
> YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes! Another one day, long one-shot fic (this was all written today; yesterday was a "break" day). Huzzah!!
> 
> I know, I failed you yesterday. But, fear not--after some deliberation, I decided to title this one with an "E" name, which should impress my intent to do at least all 26 letters of the alphabet worth of whump.
> 
> Enjoy, my friends, enjoy. This one is truly special to me.
> 
> Yours always,  
> -Cap'n Panda

Sixty-seven years was . . . a long, _long_ time.

It was a span of time that encompassed four full generations. It was not his comrades who were there to greet Steve Rogers when he awoke in a small isolation room in New York City. Nor was it their children, who he may have at least recognized as the kin of his former colleagues. 

It was not even _their_ children who occupied the young adult role in the new world—it was their grandchildren.

Had he sired children at the end of the War, they would have shown him their full-grown _grandchildren_. That was the scale of time that had passed, in a single icy night’s sleep.

Now imagine sustaining an injury for that same period of time.

Pain awoke Steve Rogers from the longest sleep of his life. He grimaced and reached for his left leg, one unsteady hand flattening over his own thigh. A flash memory slashed through him: of slamming into the ice, of broken glass and a particularly vicious shard lancing deep into his thigh. He hadn’t dared pull it out—gloved hands too numb, a voice inside him too adamant about the dangers of unplugging the gap and letting blood pour into the water—but when he felt for it in the present, the shard was gone.

Panic lurched vertiginously through him, and he lunged upright, afraid he would find himself lying in a pool of blood. He yanked the sheet back, but the white cotton beneath it was unstained. Heart still beating too fast, he fixed his gaze on the door, tense but ready, as a woman appeared, lied to him, and reached for some kind of gun.

 _Hydra_.

He swung both legs over the side of the bed. His right leg was fine; his left leg hurt like a son of a gun. Gritting his teeth, he planted both feet on the floor. At first, he thought he would get away with it. “Captain Rogers,” the woman began, and he thought, _At least you know who I am_ , before pushing himself to his feet.

His left leg didn’t support him.

He caught himself on the edge of the bed, elevating his leg off the floor instinctively. _What the hell did you do to me?_ he accused, mindless with fear. “What,” he rasped, snarling at the black suits that appeared, “the _hell_ did you do to me?”

He projected the first black suit _through_ the wall, which prompted black suit number two to actually cock his gun. _I’m a faster hit than your trigger finger_ , Steve didn’t warn him, sitting on the edge of the cot and staring at his cloth-clad legs. He flattened his palm firmly against his left leg— _they know; kill them, they_ know—and held it there, trying to compress the pain. Fuck; that _hurt_. He wanted to rip off the fabric, see the problem for himself, but drawing anymore attention to it was a bad move. Enemies shot at limps and blind spots. _I would_.

Once they had a twelve-to-one ratio of black suits to super-soldier, the leader of the pack informed him that he was not actually being held hostage at gunpoint but in good hands.

He leveled a very unimpressed look at the man, resisting the urge to bolt out the window. He’d survive a three-story drop onto concrete without so much as a bruise, but a twenty-story drop without his shield could kill him. Seething silently at his predicament, at his foolish leap to run _without_ looking—there hadn’t been _time_ , she’d called the reinforcements now pointing guns at him—Steve waited with nothing like patience for their real leader to arrive.

“Actually,” the real leader said, “this isn’t far from how I thought this would go.”

He introduced himself as Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. At his side was Agent Hill, a woman who was either sufficient in lethality to twelve men or the Director’s way of getting off on the _right_ foot as the hired guns vacated the room. 

Refusing to be lulled into complacency, Steve listened to their story as they explained how they had found his plane in the ice and brought him back to New York for treatment. He didn’t ask the obvious questions gnawing at his consciousness: _How did you fly a rescue mission to the Arctic? Don’t you know there’s a war going on?_

Instead, he mentioned, “You recorded the game.” He indicated the radio buzzing about the Dodgers, remembered how sweltering hot it was, and asked the obvious: “Why?”

“It’s a long story,” the Director said.

Tired of sitting in front of them, Steve planted a hand and deliberately set himself on his feet. His left knee bowed, and he grunted in frustration as he tried to earn its cooperation, gripping the cot for support. There was plenty of feeling in it—hurt like a _sonuvabitch_ deep in the thigh—but there was seemingly no support to its structure. Infuriated and in agony, he sat back down. “Why can’t I walk?” he demanded automatically. “What did you do to me?”

And so he learned that his leg was broken before he learned that the rest of the world was, too. 

* * *

They’d hoped for better. He had, too, but seventy years of bleeding into the wound and preventing any kind of healing had ensured that the damage was extensive. _Permanent_ , they didn’t say, but he read it in the room, sitting on his bed looking at the scans for himself. They’d scanned his whole body without so much as a by-your-leave.

They’d even scanned his _brain_. Looking at the monochrome imagery, Steve wondered with a shiver of dread if they would’ve let him wake up if they hadn’t liked what they’d found, if they’d have put a bullet in his brain despite all their overtures of peacekeeping if he hadn’t measured up. _Undesirable_. They had the tech to diagnose a soft-tissue injury that would’ve eluded all but speculation a hundred years ago; surely they had the know-how to interpret degeneracy in the brain.

 _I’m not a degenerate_. 

He’d never liked doctors. No matter how little critique the S.H.I.E.L.D. ones offered, he could not unhear the tone. They liked his new body, even if it was a broken car of a thing, one leg not functioning like it was supposed to, and he thought, _You gonna cut it off?_

It wouldn’t even be a decision he had a lot of input over, technically speaking—he was government property, and if they could argue that he’d be better off as a one-legged man, then he’d be a one-legged man. It was one of those caveats that he hadn’t bothered to read when he’d been one bad winter away from a grave, but at least it would never come up if he never got badly injured.

 _You fool_ , he told himself, sitting in a chair, no longer listening to them as he rubbed gently at his thigh, willing it to heal. They’d stated that full recovery _was_ possible as long as he remained completely immobile and wore a knee brace. The serum had performed small miracles in the past—and these people _knew_ his past, to a degree of surety that unnerved him; _they know me, I don’t know them_ —and it was entirely possible that it would pull off another one.

There were lots of things to do in the— _twenty-first century_ , as if that wasn’t a complete hoax—while recuperating, they assured him. In fact, they all but demanded his compliance, stating there was no greater cause demanding his attention than his own recovery. _What about the war?_ he retorted.

 _The war’s over_ , they replied cheerfully. _We won_.

The knee brace was agony. The idea was to draw a road map for the serum to repair the tendon, to prevent it from healing wrong, but one look at the black-and-blue ink spilled from the worst point on his thigh halfway to his knee and he thought, _I am no longer an optimist_. He kept absolutely silent, though, because it was better than cutting the damn thing off with a saw. Amputation was worse than death; it was a form of medically-authorized torture, and half the damn patients died on the table or shortly after.

There were a lot of bad weeks in Steve Rogers’ life—the periods of sickness, the periods of war, the periods of hunger and unemployment—but the week with the knee brace was up there. It was the pain of a bear trap elongated over a period of not seconds but _hours_. He thought in a somewhat desperate moment that it was a great way to make him sweat it out. _The Great Captain America can’t handle a piece of cloth_ , he could hear them sneering as he gripped his thigh to try and refocus the pain.

When they finally took it off, there was no relief. Even with the cane they offered up—he refused to be in a _chair_ , no matter how pathetic his limping along was—he was in so much pain he could barely follow the, _All right, if you’ll just come this way_ , mandate. They scanned the leg, and the news was not good—rather than knitting back into place, the soft tissues had further retreated, further immobilized. It was to be expected, they admitted, and he didn’t tear their heads off over the unnecessary agony of try, try, trying as they cheerfully volleyed the idea of _surgery_ as a next option.

 _Your chances for recovery are very good_ , they said. _Given the robustness of the serum_.

He’d heard _that_ before. It was an exercise in patience to sit on a hard table, hungry as hell and leg on fire, and listen to them talk about body modification. It was a further exercise in patience to inform them that anesthesia didn’t work on him. They dismissed it as an outdated notion, stating that they hadn’t known, seventy years ago, how to handle the serum, and now they _did_.

Angry with pain, he bet them ten dollars that they couldn’t knock him out.

He lost the bet, but he did prove a point: they didn’t _know_ what they were dealing with. It was solely experimental: they started well within the dose level that should have knocked him out and he cleanly recited the alphabet backwards. It wasn’t until they were three times over the predictive level when he slurred his first answer, but he still didn’t falter until they were nearly _five times_ over their expected dosage.

The problem was the serum’s robust response system. It deterred invasive agents with incredible vigor, forming a defensive line at the source that only total saturation could overwhelm. While the S.H.I.E.L.D. techie’s dosage predictions _were_ correct on size and metabolic speed, they failed to account for the serum’s defensive qualities. 

Which meant that, all at once, they reached a critical point, where Steve had one second to draw in a short breath before collapsing dead on the table.

They revived him, of course, with all the anxiety of mad scientists trying to keep their terrible experiment alive. He awoke with a sore heart and a terrible headache and an unquenchable appetite. They presented milkshakes as peace offerings, which he devoured greedily.

“Well,” said one of the docs with forced optimism, “at least we have options, in the event of a catastrophe.”

That was the spirit, Steve thought grimly.

Needless to say, they did not discuss reparative surgery again.

* * *

Amputation came up as an option, once or twice. For _his_ comfort, of course. 

Anyone who spent five minutes in his vicinity could see that he was in pain. Like the problem of an irremovable trap, the ultimate solution was to simply remove the trouble limb. It was an outsized reaction that would require going under the surgical knife. Until the limb necrotized, he refused to even entertain the possibility. He would not let them cut off an entire leg just because of a little pain.

It was a lot of pain, but he could handle it. If it was his choice, then he wanted to keep the leg, no matter how much it hurt.

On crutches, he was faster, but he refused them in favor of the slower, more arduous cane. People looked at a man on crutches and a man with a cane very differently. A cane was austere, a sign of earned injury; crutches were a temporary solution for an acute problem. Crutches belonged in a hospital; canes were a gentleman’s tool after surviving an enormous suffering. 

Chairs were only for those who could use neither. He was a cane user, not a man trapped in a chair. He would not _be_ a man trapped in a chair because they removed his leg, he thought, very firmly, as he limped down a hallway, pretending like his left leg wasn’t simply a very weighty passenger.

It was extraordinary how simply impossible it was to walk because of something that had happened to him _seventy years ago_. But he would have bled out if he had taken the shard out, and the limb likely would not have healed on ice, anyway—even the relatively simple hairline fractures in his ribs had only repaired themselves hours after awakening. There was no escaping his fate.

There was only a choice in paths. Crutches, cane, or chair.

No question: cane.

* * *

He asked them, almost under the table, if they had any painkilling options available. They again brought up amputation, before other, somehow more grotesque options—spinal injections, less aggressive tranquilizers. Giving him painkillers by the bottle _would_ neutralize the pain and his liver, they said, much like the serum-defying dose of tranquilizers had neutralized his heart. 

There was simply no way to neutralize the serum, let alone modify its potency, without experimentation that could lead to the unimaginable: _losing_ the serum.

It was a double-edged sword, they told him, with sympathy and understanding, like they could sympathize or understand his plight of speaking to the great-grandchildren of his comrades. He had been an officer in the Army; to be reduced to begging children was an awful place for his pride to be. 

_Pride has nothing to do with this_ , he told himself severely, nodding in acceptance and moving along, cane a fixture in his hand. It enabled him to walk, and that was why he used it. But as despair clouded his judgment, he thought briefly, _Would it be so bad to lose a leg?_ To spend even a moment without the wrenching agony was nearly so desirable as to take a knife to it himself.

But he came to his senses, took a bottle of painkillers, and tried not to feel disappointed when all it gave him was a hangover.

* * *

They slowly let him out into the world, not as Captain America but Steve Rogers.

Took him for walks, like a _dog_ , to show him the city he had known since he was born, the city he had never left for more than a day or two at a time until he went to war. It _had_ changed a lot, and there were one-and-a-half million more people crammed into the streets. It seemed like every single one of them desired to personally knock his cane or leg out from under him, and twice, he actually went down, unable to catch himself mid-fall on air and a broken leg.

Some were polite enough to stop and help, while others kept moving along. He preferred the latter—the shame of being unable to keep himself upright was beyond bearable, never mind when attention was called to it. His S.H.I.E.L.D. babysitters stood guard, offering an arm up so he could replant his cane and walk on his own terms again.

It was such a painful chore just to walk that he could almost ignore the city itself, transformed by seventy years of progress.

 _I don’t belong here_ , he thought, and mentioned it to the Director, who offered to put him up in D.C., instead. He had contacts with veterans who might be more Steve’s speed. While Steve tried not to read it as _lamed folks like you_ , he stepped off the plane with his leg so sore he almost begged them to take it off again, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

And then he met Sam Wilson, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed combatant without a scratch on him.

* * *

Sam liked early breakfasts, which was convenient, because Steve couldn’t bear to wait until seven or eight AM for a meal when he woke up at four.

By five-thirty, they’d found a diner. Sam was as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as the moment Steve had met him, and being the only two non-working people at the shop had its perks. Sam’s laugh was infectious, and Steve couldn’t help but flash a smile as he stirred his own coffee.

Steve didn’t talk much, but Sam had anecdotes for days, funny stories that Steve could actually relate to, even though Sam was Air Force, and Steve was Army. “You Army guys think you’re so tough,” Sam said, grinning to lighten the words. “Can’t even handle a bird.”

“Well,” Steve said, pausing meaningfully as he met Sam’s gaze, “they let me handle _one_.” Sam watched him, listening with honest interest. Steve shrugged modestly, admitting, “Think they revoked my honorary license.”

“Tough luck,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “It’s a hard-knock life, sometimes.”

* * *

Sam was nice. He made Steve feel like he was with a friend instead of a babysitter as they walked around the Washington Monument and its reflective pool. 

At least _some_ things didn’t change, Steve thought, fond and relieved and beginning to see why the Director insisted he get out of town. He never asked Steve if he was okay or if his leg was hurting him. There was a time and place when such questions were actually handy, and then there was the rest of Steve’s life, where he wanted to get by _without_ being constantly reminded that he had an infirmity.

 _Not even from combat_. They sat on the steps at the base of the Lincoln Memorial together, enjoying the early morning light. Steve stretched out his leg carefully, and it still hurt him. Gritting his teeth hard enough to make a muscle twitch in his jaw, he waited for the pain to recede to a low burn. 

Sam said, “We good, Cap?” He looked like he would sincerely take no for an answer, but hearing it phrased as a _we_ made it a lot easier to say:

“Yeah, Sam.” _We’ll be just fine_.

* * *

And then a guy called _Loki_ showed up.

* * *

Steve watched the footage of the Hulk smashing whole cars with a single blow from his green fist and mentioned to Agent Coulson, “You seem like you’ve got a lot of power on your hands.”

“We do,” Coulson agreed, standing with one hand on a support rigging as the— _Quinjet_ sailed along the sea, towards the rendezvous point. “But it’s not just about power. Big guns. We need brains, too.”

Flipping through the files—Dr. Bruce Banner, who somehow _was_ the big green monster, had a college education and multiple Ph.D.’s; Tony Stark, the progeny and prodigy of Howard Stark; and Natasha Romanoff, a world-class espionage agent—Steve remarked, “I think there may have been a mistake.” 

His own file was complimentary—listed off all the attributes of the serum, including ones that no longer applied, like maximum speed and jump height—but there were clear absences. He didn’t have any Ph.D.’s, and his combat tour of just eighteen months seemed small on digital paper. Even his rank of _Captain_ didn’t seem to have much punch. It was a fairly meaningless rank outside the Army.

It was disheartening, to say the least, but Coulson insisted, “We need you.” When Steve finally looked up, he added, “ _With everything that’s happened . . . with everything that’s about to happen_ . . . we need Captain America on our side. Because then everyone knows it’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m a symbol,” Steve said. It sounded painfully close to _show-boy_.

“You’re our ace in the hand,” Coulson said firmly. Steve didn’t point out that, under some circumstances, it was the least valuable card. “Think about it as a chance to get back in the world,” he suggested. “Sort of . . . test run. For something new. Fury mention it?”

“He plays his cards pretty close to his chest,” Steve said, disclosing nothing.

“Well.” After a long beat, Coulson said, “If it’s not too much trouble—and you’re free to say no—I do have your trading cards. Be an honor if you signed them. They’re mint,” he added.

“Trading cards?” Steve said, frowning. “What trading cards?”

* * *

Dr. Banner, at least, seemed relieved to have a Captain America on board. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” he said earnestly, approaching and offering a hand. Steve shook it firmly, gripping his cane carefully. “I don’t know anyone here except Romanoff. Have you seen her?” He looked hopefully at Steve’s face, then added, “Sorry, I’m—”

“Dr. Banner,” Steve filled in.

Looking a mixture of awed and relieved, Banner said, “Yeah, I—” Leaning in, he asked conspiratorially, “Fury give you a _timeline_ of all this?”

“No,” Steve said honestly. His leg was beginning to hurt a great deal, standing on the windy helicarrier deck, but at least Banner’s nervous energy provided a small distraction. “He doesn’t really tell me much.”

“Right?” Flicking his gaze around, Banner said, “Seems like a pretty big operation.”

“Seems like,” Steve agreed.

“When’d you get here?”

“About five minutes before you.”

Nodding to himself, Banner gestured around nervously and said, “Should probably find—”

“Well, this makes my job easy,” Natasha Romanoff greeted, stepping up. “Hello, boys.”

“Oh, you’re here,” Banner said, turning to her like he hadn’t honestly expected her to show up.

Steve said politely, “Ma’am.” She didn’t have a listed rank in her file.

“Soldier,” she replied. She looked him over once, then said dryly, “They didn’t list the cane in the file.”

“Natasha,” Banner said immediately, horrified.

Steve shrugged and said, “Superfluous information.”

“Right.”

“There a problem, ma’am?” Steve pressed.

“Only if you keep calling me ‘ma’am,’” Romanoff said.

Steve looked _her_ over once, casual in pedestrian clothes yet stunningly lethal, according to her file. “In that case. Sir,” he dared. “I’m going to find the Director.”

“Don’t bother. He’s busy with pre-launch.”

“Pre-launch?” Banner squeaked. “Where’s he going?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Romanoff said. Nodding towards the edge of the ship, she indicated, “Might wanna watch your step, soldier.” Then led the way.

Banner danced from foot-to-foot like a kid, then gratefully followed alongside Steve as he dutifully limped after her. “Hell of a woman, huh?” Banner said.

“Don’t ever say that about her again,” Steve rebuked, making him cower. Romanoff had a decent lead, might not even be in earshot, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Romanoff indicated, “Should probably stop there,” about fifteen feet back from herself. “You’ll hear it.”

There was a deep thrum building up. Steve limped closer, anyway. Banner asked, “What’s that?”

“ _Is this a submarine?_ ” Steve asked.

“You’re kidding,” Banner deadpanned. “ _They want me in a submerged, pressurized container?_ ”

Once they were mere feet from the edge, they could see the turbine, huge, half the size of the helicarrier, rising slowly out of the water.

Banner laughed, a touch hysterically. “ _Oh, no, this is much worse_.”

They retreated from the edge and back onto the landing pad, where most of the cadets racing around had donned masks. “That’s our cue,” Romanoff said.

Steve watched her walk off, then followed at his own pace, Banner once more stuck like glue to his side. “She’s real friendly, honest,” he said. “Just—”

“It’s all right,” Steve said firmly. His leg really hurt, but he refused to cry uncle as he added, “Comes as a shock to some people, I s’pose.”

“I don’t care,” Banner alleged sincerely. “Really. I don’t. I think it’s neat, actually, that you—well, not that you _need it_ , that part is awful, but—”

Letting the chatter buzz over him, Steve blew out a silent, relieved breath as they finally stepped through the same doors as Romanoff into the interior of the helicarrier. It was cool and smelled vaguely of metal. _Submarine_ , he thought, adding to Banner, “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

He didn’t think he could take the fifteen-minute journey from gate to command center with Banner babbling in his ear the whole time about how accepting of Steve’s maimed leg he was, even if the intent was sincere. 

He almost preferred Romanoff’s cool dismissal, like he shouldn’t be on the helicarrier in the first place. _I shouldn’t_ , he thought, limping slowly down the hall, biting back a retort whenever an agent passed him on the inside with a brisk, “Sorry, Cap, coming through.”

The command center felt like a pyrrhic victory, even though it _was_ refreshing to see the Director at the helm. Taking a seat at the big table with a stifled wince, Steve resisted the urge to bite through his own cheek when Banner promptly wheeled over to him and asked nervously, “So, we have a plan, right? To catch Loki? That’s not _Plan Green_?”

Recovering for a moment, Steve shut his eyes, shutting out the noise of the helicarrier and even the little voice screaming at him that he shouldn’t be there, before saying aloud firmly and clearly, “Let’s start with finding him. Then we’ll worry about catching him.”

* * *

Of all the ways Steve expected to return to Germany, chasing down a Norse god was not on the list.

Still—he went where the bastard showed up. He even suited up when Fury told him to, although it was always a chore to get his pants on and off. He propped his cane in one hand, his shield in the other, and thought, _Is this how I fight?_

He wasn’t a fighter, anymore. He didn’t dare say it, because wearing his suit reminded him that he _was_ a warrior, once, whole and unbroken and _good_ , and the idea of taking it off again and telling Fury he couldn’t actually do it anymore was unbearable. He’d rather be cut down by Loki’s scepter than admit he couldn’t even _try_ to help.

Romanoff and he loaded up on one of the Quinjets with a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Sitting in the front seat of a plane again brought back unfond memories, but at least Romanoff was piloting. _If we go down, it’s not my fault_.

Romanoff said, “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

“You’d be impressed how often that happens.” Shifting in his seat, Steve hid a wince as he jarred his leg, adding, “How far out are—”

“Thirty minutes. How’d it happen?”

“Take a guess.” Steve fixed his gaze on the window, kneading his knee with his hand absentmindedly.

“Surprised they didn’t rig you up. Braces—”

“Not on the table,” Steve said firmly.

“Why not? Seems like it’s giving you trouble.”

Scowling, Steve said, “It’s not up for discussion.”

“Suit yourself, soldier.”

Looking out the window, Steve said, “Just point me in this guy’s direction.”

* * *

“ _Ah. The_ soldier. _The man out of time_.”

So. Loki was a talker. Standing with his shield largely concealing his black cane, Steve stared down his opponent, saying fearlessly, “ _I’m not the one who’s out of time_.”

Loki’s grin was feral. Standing outside the museum, half a head taller than anyone in the crowd around him, Loki directed them, “ _Look to your elder, people. Let this be an example_.”

Loki shot a bolt of energy that Steve blocked, then _lunged_.

Loki didn’t jump—he simply teleported, one moment across the alcove, the next driving his lethally sharp scepter towards Steve’s heart. It was only his own superhuman reflexes that prevented it from doing more than cutting the uniform and the outer edge of his skin—catching the blade on his shield, he flung it to the side. 

Loki stood his ground—he seemed to weigh far more than a human being his formidable size should, not moving with the blow like Steve expected. Grinning eyes did not falter as he lifted Steve by the throat.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Steve stabbed outward with his good leg, landing a kick to the throat that could’ve easily crushed a man’s windpipe. Loki grunted and threw him twenty feet away. He landed on his back, but pain ricocheted to his bad leg, paralyzing him in a lock-jawed scream. _Fuck_ , it hurt, more than he ever wanted to admit, but Loki was back, behind him this time, wrenching an arm around Steve’s throat.

“Loki! Drop it!” shouted Romanoff from overhead, still piloting the Quinjet, Steve saw.

Loki breathed, “I see you, Captain.” He pinned down Steve’s bad leg with annihilating force; a howl tore its way out of his lungs. “Pathetic,” he spat, holding him hard. 

“Romanoff,” Steve spat into the comms. “Take the shot.”

Hovering the bird, Romanoff ignored him. Loki laughed, squeezed his neck until black dots crowded his vision and he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. He was aware of the crowd, terrified to flee, bodies littering the periphery. It made him angry, and angry was a tool in his kit—he struck out with an elbow, again much harder than Loki was expecting, if the way his grip loosened was any indication. 

“Do it!” Steve roared.

Loki locked his neck, and Steve had a flash of insight— _he’s going to kill me_ —before a flash of blinding white light hit the metal helmet. Loki released him and teleported out of range. Steve struggled to his feet, head pounding, the pain in his leg like a stake keeping him on the ground. He was stupidly grateful that the shield was still covering the cane, although part of it still jutted out. _C’mon_ , he told himself, lunging upright, catching himself on the cane and, hard as he could, throwing the shield at Loki.

The one-two punch worked—the shield struck Loki in the chest, and as he swung his scepter around to strike Steve down, Iron Man shot a blast that knocked Loki into the concrete. Landing hard enough to shake the ground, Iron Man sprouted a multitude of guns, all pointed firmly at the Norse god. “ _Make a move, reindeer games_.”

Steve expected a counterattack. But Loki just—shifted, shedding the antlered helmet and golden cloak, adopting a more modest outfit. Slowly, he put both hands in the air.

“ _Good move_ ,” Iron Man said, retracting his own guns.

Steve limped painstakingly slowly over to his shield. Picked it up with only a little grunt of pain, his left leg less cooperative than ever. He latched it onto his cane arm and stepped up to bat, looking down at Loki, watching for the slightest twitch of retaliation, as the Quinjet landed noisily in the empty street behind them.

“ _Captain_ ,” Iron Man greeted suddenly, his own metal eyes locked on Loki.

“ _Mr. Stark_ ,” Steve huffed, resisting the urge to ask, _Where the hell have you been?_

He could almost _hear_ the question in Stark’s own tone— _what’s with the cane?_ —but Stark didn’t voice it. Even after the Quinjet landed and dumped a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to deal with the aftermath and help cuff and drag their prisoner back to the plane, Stark didn’t lose a hint of vigilance until they were loaded up.

It was only once they were in the air and Steve was seated next to Romanoff that Stark finally broke: “So, am I . . . _not_ supposed to mention the cane?”

Steve shut his eyes, ignoring him. His entire leg felt bruised, and he’d done his civic duty. He’d helped bring in Loki, kept his attention off the civvies. As far as he was concerned, he was done with the mission, and he didn’t have to respond.

But Stark just went on: “And if I wasn’t supposed to mention it, why wasn’t I informed ahead of time that I wasn’t supposed to mention it? That’s terrible PR.”

“You could just _not_ mention it,” Steve finally said shortly.

“No, but—I’m not crazy, am I?” Stark asked Romanoff. “Captain America has a _cane_.”

Gripping his good knee hard, Steve snapped, “Real brave of you, casting stones. Or is that thing in your chest for show?”

A beat, then: “I was tortured by terrorists. What’d you do? Fall down the stairs?”

It occurred to Steve, then and there, that they had _no idea_ the extent of the injury. Not a damn clue—it _wasn’t in his file_. It was therefore the diplomatic answer to not respond to the goading, to simply let it go and be the bigger man.

Frostily, Steve said, “Leave it.”

“No, I wanna know. How many flights? Two? Three?” Stark sneered.

There was a huff of air from the back of the plane. Steve turned to look at Loki, but Stark’s bulky suit was blocking his view. Sighing, he unbuckled, stood up, and forewent the cane in favor of grasping the chair. “How bad is it?” Stark insisted, nudging him, nearly making him fall. “Should you even be _on_ a—”

Steve crunched the metal arm that came too close, up and _crunched_ the metal in his hand. Stark scowled, yanking his arm away. “Anybody ever tell you you break it, you buy it? Of course not. You were _busy doing time as a Capsicle_.”

“Boys,” Romanoff warned suddenly.

“What else did you miss? Hm?”

Anger sizzled under Steve’s skin. So did exhaustion—pain was draining, pain was a weakness, pain was not something he could overcome, and he caught a glimpse of Loki’s eyes and they were dark with knowing, glittering with wicked knowledge.

 _I see you, Captain_.

Mind games. But—

A crackle of thunder made them all audibly pause. “That’s weird,” Romanoff said. “There aren’t any storms in the area.”

Rain wasn’t pelting the windshield, but a flash of lightning compelled Steve to ask, “Is this gonna be a problem?”

“No, she’ll—”

“You’d know, if you read up more,” Stark interrupted.

Steve growled, lurching handhold by handhold deeper into the plane. He could feel the weight of Loki’s stare and Stark’s sneer as the latter said, “Wow, I _really_ cannot believe Fury sent you out like this. People could’ve been killed.” _You’re useless. Don’t you get it?_ Shaking with repressed anger, Steve dropped into a seat on the opposite side of Loki, gritting his teeth hard against the pain. Stark’s voice became background noise, until another rumble of thunder seemed to rattle the plane. Loki’s expression twisted briefly, not in pain but—

“ _What’s the matter? Scared of a little lightning?_ ” Steve asked, as the Norse god looked at the ceiling anxiously.

Loki glared at him, but his voice was calm with purposeful ease as he said, “ _I’m not overly fond of what follows_.”

Steve had time to exchange a _what the hell does that mean?_ look with Stark before there was a loud thump on the roof of the Quinjet, followed by a particularly emphatic flash of light.

“Shit. We got a hanger-oner,” Stark said, already reaching for his helmet, before the outer door was wrenched open, letting in the howling wind—and a human figure.

A _towering_ human figure, even more monstrous than Loki, lurching forward, yanking _their_ prisoner clean out of his seat and launching _both_ of them out of the plane.

Steve cursed. Stark growled, “I’ll handle this.”

Like hell he would. Lurching upright, Steve grasped his metal arm, fingers impressing over the dents automatically, and warned, “ _Stark. We need a plan of attack_.”

Stark shoved him back against the wall with a cold blast from his opposing gauntlet. Hell of a message, Steve thought, keeping his expression very flat. “ _I have a plan,_ ” Iron Man snapped. “ _Attack_.” Then he launched himself out of the plane.

He really was beginning to dislike his supposed _team_. Leveraging himself to his feet, Steve said, “Land. That’s an order.”

“You gonna sit this one out?” Romanoff asked, looking over her own shoulder at him.

Steve snapped, “ _Land_.”

* * *

No, he didn’t sit it out. He had a bad leg, not a bad heart, or wheezy lungs, or half a dozen other ailments that disqualified him from enlistment. He had a broken leg; he wasn’t—

_What? Broken?_

Trekking through the forest, too dense for the Quinjet to follow, he could see the flashes of light ahead. He wanted to run. He couldn’t run. Fucking _dammit_.

He slid down a forty-foot slope, landed _hard_ on his feet, and didn’t wait to catch his breath before shoving himself upright. The last hundred yards took a lifetime. But at least when Stark cracked into a tree nearby, upside-down, he felt somewhat vindicated for asking, “Still got a handle on it, Stark?”

“Shut up,” Stark grunted, slumping to the ground. “Just shut up—”

The superhuman charged. Steve shouted, “ _Hey_!” but the superhuman was out for blood and Stark was it, so Steve planted himself in front of Iron Man and warned, “ _That’s_ _enough_.”

The superhuman paused, snapping, “Step aside.”

“Might wanna listen to him, Cap,” wheezed Iron Man, still on the ground. Steve couldn’t tell if the suit had taken damage or if Stark himself had, but it was a moment before he even started shuffling upright. “He’s—”

“I don’t care what he’s up to,” Steve snapped. “All I care about is Loki. Where did you take him?”

“It is no business of yours!” roared the superhuman. “ _I’ve come here to put an end to Loki’s schemes!_ ”

“ _Then prove it_ ,” Steve retorted. “ _Put that hammer down—_ ”

“ _Uh, yeah, no, bad call_ ,” Stark said, as the superhuman roared:

“ _You want me to put the hammer down?_ ”

He leaped for Steve. Steve thought, _This is either gonna work or kill me_ , flung his shield up in front of his head, and braced for impact.

If he thought _Loki_ hit like a freight train, this guy hit like a _planet_. Every inch of Steve resonated with the energy, and he cried out as pain shattered up his left leg, but instead of coring through him like an invisible blade, the majority of the force deflected backward, outward, flinging the superhuman away. The sound alone was the loudest thing Steve had ever heard at close range, leaving his ears ringing long after the blast dissipated.

Trapped on his knees, still huddling under his shield, Steve felt Iron Man pry it out of his hands, say through the fuzziness, “Cap?” like he was genuinely worried.

Steve tried to breathe, but he couldn’t, his chest locked up. Oh, _God_ , his leg, his leg was on fire, his leg was amputated, something was _wrong_ , but as Iron Man put an arm around his shoulders and hauled him up, he looked down and saw it still dangling underneath him. He planted his trembling right leg in the dirt, gripping the armor, confident he would faceplant without it.

“So, I think that settles it,” Stark said, his voice full of forced cheer. “It was a tie.”

The superhuman breathed deeply, breath steaming in front of him. He seemed surprised that Steve was still standing, rumbling, “I do not understand.”

“Tie, you know— _draw_ ,” Stark said.

Steve slowly loosened his grip on Iron Man’s shoulder, but his cane was on the ground. He couldn’t stand for long without it, not with the deadweight of his left leg. “Stark,” he rasped in warning.

“No,” the superhuman said, walking towards them. “How did you survive?” He was looking right at Steve, hunter eyes, _finish it off_ eyes.

“Well,” Steve managed, aware his voice was tight and he couldn’t even _stand_ without Iron Man, “I braced.”

The superhuman stared at him for an unnervingly long time. Steve didn’t dare blink.

At last, the superhuman said, “I am Thor, son of Odin.”

Steve offered quietly, “I’m Steve Rogers. Captain Steve Rogers.”

“Captain,” said Thor, extending a massive hand. Steve released Iron Man’s shoulders and extended his own hand. Thor grasped his wrist with bone-bruising force. “I concede this battle.” He released Steve. “Let us deal with my brother.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Two Norse gods.

That was even better than one, Steve thought.

* * *

“Cap. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Iron Man was unexpectedly twitchy on the helicarrier, looking down the dark hallway like he expected people to come running at them with guns at any moment. Steve was exhausted and looking forward to spending some time in his assigned quarters while the S.H.I.E.L.D. team interrogated Loki. With Thor around and on their side, he felt confident that the situation was finally back under control, and the Director had given him permission to lick his wounds.

“Make it quick,” he told Stark, who nodded vaguely and started walking.

Sighing, Steve followed him down the corridor. Stark found a door, pulled it open, and then made an affirmative noise.

Steve stepped into what appeared to be some kind of storage room, and Stark shut the heavy door behind them. “Gonna finish me off?” Steve asked wearily. He couldn’t fight Iron Man in his suit. Not here. Not now. Maybe before, when he’d had both legs under him.

Stark ignored him. “Why’d you do it?” he asked instead.

“Do what?” Steve replied. His head ached. They only had two-and-a-half hours to get back to the mainland.

Stark looked at him like he was stupid. “Interfere. I have a _suit_. You—” He stopped himself, deliberately, and said honestly, “That’s not just for show. Is it?”

Weary of the game, of the lies to protect his own skin, Steve said, “I can’t walk without it.” He limped deeper into the room, dug the folding chair out from its corner, and laboriously set it up. Collapsing into it only made the pain bang from his knee to his hip. He winced. “I shouldn’t be here,” he confessed, the dark blue-tinted room a safe space to say it out loud. Stark would forget it, anyway, or chalk it up to an old man’s delirium. _I’m not that old, you know._

 _Maybe it was seventy years for my body. But it was one night for me_.

“Did they tell you it’s necrotic?” Iron Man asked.

Steve rubbed his left thigh gingerly. “Let me see it,” Iron Man suggested.

“No,” Steve snapped, angry, tired. “It’s mine.” _You can’t have it_.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Iron Man insisted. “It’s like . . . what happened?”

“I’m _tired_ ,” Steve snapped aloud, shutting his eyes, shutting him out. He could sleep here, and that would help, that would put him back together.

Stark said quietly but ominously, “That’s a dead leg, Cap.”

Emotion lumped unexpectedly in Steve’s throat. He swallowed around it, gripped his hand into a tight fist. It shook. Pain swelled. Stark went on, “You know, the prosthetics, they’re—”

“Shut up,” Steve seethed. “Just _shut up_ , shut up—”

“Is it spontaneous deterioration? Have you told anyone?” Aghast, Stark said, “Is this _new_?”

“ _No_ ,” Steve scowled, blinking at him, unreadable behind the damn suit. “It’s not new and nobody’s taking it and you would leave well enough alone if you knew what was good for you.”

Unexpectedly, Iron Man knelt in front of him. Steve bristled as Iron Man placed two heavy hands on his knees. The left one hurt a lot. The right one was just warm. “Why is S.H.I.E.L.D. letting you run around with a necrotic leg?” Stark asked, voice pitched between gentle and concerned.

Steve rasped, “Let go of me.”

“Answer,” Stark ordered.

 _Because they can’t_ fix me. Steve’s throat mercifully closed up, preventing him from answering. He looked away, but the pain in his left leg was mounting, and he gripped both hands into shaking fists. “Let go or I’ll hurt you, Stark.”

Stark lingered for another moment, then withdrew both hands, resting them on his own metal thighs. “Cap,” Stark said. Then, unexpectedly: “Rogers. This . . . you wanna see it?” He popped off the helmet suddenly, held it out. Steve stared at him, at the raw shock in his face, at the helmet in his hands. “Go on. It won’t bite.”

Hands still in fists, Steve shook his head. “No.” _I don’t want to_ , he didn’t say. He’d seen enough scans for a lifetime. It all meant the same thing, in the end. _It hurts. It will always hurt. Get used to it_. He drew in a shallow breath, and then the sirens went off.

So much for a two-hour break.

“Shit,” Stark said automatically, scrambling to his own feet, shoving the helmet on.

Steve grabbed his own cane and shield, shoved to his feet, and tried to shut down the voice whispering, _Necrotic, necrotic, necrotic_ as he limped after Stark.

They would think he was superhuman, if they knew _how_ much it hurt, carrying around the weight of the ice.

Stark said suddenly, “Fury says the engine’s down. We gotta _move_.” He turned to Cap, asked, “If I carry you, will you break my suit? It’ll be faster.”

Sighing, Steve said, “Just do it.”

“Can’t wait for Nike to find out you used their slogan,” Stark said cheerfully, scooping him under the arms from behind and zipping off. “If we survive this, it’ll be _great_.”

* * *

Depressurization at thirty-thousand feet was _not_ fun.

It was especially un-fun with a dead leg. Helpfully, Stark kept saying things like, “Oh my fucking _God_ , the Hulk is on Deck C,” and then orders like, “Somebody gets eyes on the Hulk, please and thank you!” Steve almost pawed the comms out of his ears so he could focus on the _real_ problem, which was the giant turbine. Stark dumped him on a metal platform, encouraged, “Just need you to push some buttons for me,” and zipped off.

Barely able to think with the way his vision was swimming, Steve gripped the edge of the panel and slid it outward. Oh. Buttons. Neat.

He breathed in deeply, almost frantically, and the unsteadiness slowly disappeared. Which was good, as Stark relayed rapid-fire instructions and gunmen arrived to prevent Steve from following through with any of them. 

_Bastards_ , Steve thought, using his shield to deflect bullets, waiting for Stark’s signal to pull the red lever. _Hurry up, Stark_. The whole helicarrier abruptly began to list. 

Stark shouted, “God, _dammit_ , can someone please look out for the fucking engines?!”

With two down, they’d never stay in the air, Steve knew, gripping the panel in one hand and his shield in the other, desperate to stay on his feet.

It was hard—the metal under his feet had enough condensation to be slippery. When he twitched his right foot to avoid a bullet, he went down unexpectedly hard, gripping the underside of the panel just to stay on the _plane_.

“Cap! Pull the lever!” Tony chose that moment to roar.

 _Necrotic_ , a voice whispered. _Dead_.

“ _Cap!_ ” 

_Dead_ , insisted the pain throbbing in his leg, like there could be _pain after death_ , and he hauled himself up and pulled the lever as another bullet pinged off his shield.

Trembling with it, he clung to the bar even as Iron Man swooped in, crashed into a pair of goons, and landed inside the door. Letting out a gasp of a breath, Steve fumbled for his cane, but it was gone—lost in the melee, lost when Stark picked him up, he didn’t know, but without it—

“Hang on,” Stark wheezed, putting a metal arm around him and hauling him back inside the ship, clear of the black suited bodies. “I gotcha.”

He let go and Steve—dammit, there was nothing for Steve to grab, stepping forward automatically and crumpling.

The outer door finally shut after its thirty-second timer. The silence was foreboding between them as Steve—planted both fists on the ground, and started to push himself up.

“Here, I—”

“I got it,” Steve rasped. 

Metal hands gripped under his arms, lifting. “Don’t _touch_ me!” Steve howled.

The hands merely firmed and pulled him the rest of the way upright. Steve shook with anger, enraged by the dampness on his face, desperate to excuse it as condensation.

“I’m not—” Steve began, swallowing. Slowly, Stark retreated, and Steve managed, “Damn you.” He gripped the arm before it could retreat, needing it to stay upright. Even then, he began to sway, holding on desperately, determined not to fall.

He hopped one step forward, slipped, and hit the ground on his back.

He was too ashamed _to_ feel ashamed, staring at the white ceiling for a long moment, half-expecting Stark to grab him by the leg and drag him off. _Amputate. Amputate_. He strained forward, to sit up, at least. The vertigo was nauseating. He felt pale and uncertain, lost as both hands fumbled for his leg, tore at the fabric to see what he already knew.

“Christ Almighty,” Stark hissed between his teeth.

Steve gripped at the blackened flesh desperately, desperately, willing it to turn red, to come alive, and sobbed once when nothing happened.

“I’m gonna be sick,” moaned Stark, turning away. “Oh, geez.”

 _Please,_ Steve couldn’t bring himself to whisper. _Please_.

He heard Stark take off his helmet, gagging in a corner. 

_Please_ , Steve whispered.

* * *

Phil Coulson, the man who believed in him, who’d offered him trading cards to sign, was dead.

There were a dozen or more fatalities, but it was Phil Coulson who stood out.

 _Dead_ , a voice whispered.

Sitting at a table, staring at the bloody trading cards, his own form proud and cane-less, he thought, _This man is dead_.

He cupped his chin in a weary hand, ignoring them all for—twenty minutes, give or take.

If it was sleep, it was awful, because the pain never went away.

* * *

When he blinked his eyes open, he realized a mylar blanket had been placed over him.

 _I’m not dead_ , he thought, jerking a little, breathing fast, and tore it off, tore the fabric in his haste. _I’m not dead_. He shredded it into pieces, hands shaking, violently disposing it.

He stood and flailed blindly for his cane—it wasn’t there, he lurched forward instinctively to catch himself on nothing and—

The Director caught him, slid under his arm, more strength he would have expected under his black cloak.

No words passed between them as the Director helped him back into his chair. Steve gripped a hand into a fist on the table, suddenly aware that he was— _nothing_ , less than nothing without his cane. He could not walk away.

His eyes burned. He looked away.

God help him, help them _all_. Loki was gone, and the _Hulk_ had gotten out, and Thor was missing, and Coulson was dead.

“At ease, soldier,” the Director said, an offering and an order. Steve finally looked up at him, wondering what his eyes showed, what the Director saw in the blackness visible on his leg. Dead skin. Dead tissue. Dead _bone_. 

Shuddering, he said, “Help me.” It was a terrible whisper, but—he needed it. He could not avoid it.

The Director seemed like he would not, like he would walk away from him, but then—with more care, he slid Steve’s arm around his shoulders.

With Steve limping heavily beside him, they found Stark. _Thank you_ , Steve thought, but the Director put him in reach of the railing, and he grabbed it, and then the Director was gone. _Thank you_.

Carrying the weight of his left leg was a burden, but speaking to Stark was more important. “You two knew each other?” he preluded.

Stark scoffed. It was an unpleasant sound, mean, making fun of. There were tears in his eyes. “First name _Agent_ , last name _Fuck Off_. _He was an idiot_ ,” he seethed suddenly, turning to face Steve, standing maybe ten paces around the circular room. “ _He should’ve known better_.”

“ _Why? For believing?_ ”

“ _For taking on Loki alone_.” 

Steve thought, _I did_. And so he defended the dead man: “ _He was doing his job_.”

Scoffing, Stark walked away from the edge of the catwalk and sneered, “ _He was out of his league. He should’ve—waited. He should’ve_ —”

Taking one limping step along the railing towards him, Steve said softly, “ _Sometimes, there isn’t a way out, Tony_.” Another step. It seemed unbearably loud, echoing in the silo-like room. Two more, and then Tony Stark sniffed, crossed the distance quickly, and said meanly:

“God, that’s unbearable to listen to.” He curved an arm around Steve’s back, stepping in for the Director. Although shorter, he was strong, too. _My team is strong_ , Steve thought.

“ _This the first time you ever lost a soldier?_ ” Steve asked.

He felt Tony’s back go rigid, half thought Tony would throw him down to the pit. If the doors opened, he’d fall an extra thirty thousand feet to the ground. But Tony just spat, “ _We are_ not _soldiers_ ,” and Steve knew, in that moment, the precise difference between him and all his supposed teammates.

 _I am_.

And it showed. None of them were— _battle-scarred_ , the way he was. They were all good, hearty, whole. They hadn’t—and then he saw the glowing blue light in Tony’s t-shirt and reminded himself, _Not perfect._

 _But not broken_.

Swallowing, he said honestly, “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony sighed, “You’re so damn heavy,” and Steve wasn’t even sure if he meant his physical weight. He shuffled them to sit on the steps instead. “We’re a mess, Cap. We’re a fucking wreck.”

Steve said again, “I’m sorry, Tony.”

“And that—that was _before_ Loki showed up. You think I signed up for this?”

He was a broken record: “I’m sorry, Tony.”

“I just—I wanna be _in my home_ , doing what I do best, not fighting _gods_.”

Steve kept his silence. There was nothing more he could say.

“And Loki, he—he didn’t just hit us where it hurt, he— _he made it personal_.”

“ _That’s not the point_ ,” Steve said softly.

“ _That is the point,_ that’s _Loki’s point. He hit us all where we live. Why?_ ”

Steve thought about it. “I don’t know.”

Getting up, Tony said, “He wants to tear us apart.” A beat. “ _He wants to be seen doing it._ The world has to know— _he wants an audience_.” He held out a hand suddenly; Steve took it, and Tony hauled him up, looking him dead in the eye as he said, “He’s going supernova. Whatever comes next, it’s gonna be _huge_. Stuttgart, that was just a rehearsal, this is—this is _opening night_.”

* * *

Opening night was opening a portal to an alien army—in _space_ —and unleashing it on the eight-and-a-half million inhabitants of New York.

Sometimes, Steve just hated the twenty-first century.

Hated S.H.I.E.L.D. for messing with the Tesseract, hated his leg for refusing to cooperate, hated—

“You’re coming, aren’t you?” Iron Man asked him, standing on the Quinjet and holding out a wooden cane. It was more conspicuous than his black one, but at least it was _sturdy_.

Steve gripped it, said honestly, “Thank you, Tony,” and caught Tony’s nod.

“Sure. Now let’s kick his ass. Can’t be harder than _Thor_.”

* * *

It was, if only because Loki had an _army_ of aliens at his disposal.

Steve had never felt the weight of the cane as much as he did looking at the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Avengers, Iron Man telling him, “ _Call it, Captain_.”

Even Thor was listening. 

_The Hulk_ was listening.

Maybe there was something to be said for the ace in the hand, Steve mused, turning at last to Romanoff and saying, “ _You and me, we stay here on the ground. Keep the fighting here_.”

Turning to the big green guy, surprised to see him still paying attention, Steve said seriously, “ _Hulk? Smash_.”

Hulk _grinned_ , feral and delighted, and took off in a flying leap. 

Steve turned to Romanoff and said, “Think about getting off on the right foot yet?”

“I’m considering it,” she said, and he smiled a little.

“I’ve had worse odds.”

* * *

They won.

Steve wouldn’t call it a _landslide_ , but they won.

* * *

His leg was necrotizing.

Steve stared at it, swallowing back horror. The serum had given up entirely, consigned the damage to oblivion.

It was necrotizing. It was _spreading_.

 _You know the endgame_. He stared down at his legs, gripped his left thigh, holding on like he could keep it safe that way. He’d used the Internet for a lot of purposes, but looking up necrotic damage had been a mistake.

The pain was worse; even at rest it was unbearable, but he was bearing it, because what else was he gonna do?

* * *

“Stark.”

Feverish and desperate, Steve limped over to Tony Stark, seated on a couch working on a tablet, looking up and dropping the tablet in surprise.

“What the hell?”

“Stark,” Steve pleaded, hand shaky and sweaty where it gripped the cane. “Please.” Stark was a genius. Stark could fix it. Where everyone else fell short, Howard Stark stepped up to plate and defied all expectations. He’d made the shield sitting in Steve’s apartment, unprotected but not in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hands.

He tripped into a low-lying table, cried out. Stark struggled to catch him, redirecting him onto the couch. He might have blacked out, coming to to Stark’s frantic hands tugging at him, getting him on his back. “Please,” he whispered. He didn’t even care if cutting it off hurt—he just needed the _pain_ to go away.

He couldn’t imagine cutting it off would hurt _more_.

Stark said, “All right. All right. Hang in there, big guy.”

He clawed for consciousness, straining against the fever his own body had cooked up in a dire attempt to survive the wave. 

The leg had to go. “Please,” he reiterated, hoping the words made it in, somehow. _Stark. Help me._

 _I can’t take it anymore_.

* * *

His left leg was gone.

Steve reached for the depressed space in the blankets. It was a dream. It was a nightmare. He gripped the edge of the blanket, determined to pull it back, to see the _truth_ , but—he sucked in a breath, then another, and yanked it away.

The bandaged stump didn’t even _look_ like it had been part of him. He reeled in horror from his own body, nearly fell out of bed.

“Easy, tough guy,” warned Iron Man, on his right side, metal hands preventing him from toppling onto the floor. “It takes time. It takes time.”

They’d taken his _leg_. A howl of fury, despair, shredded his throat.

He could not be _Captain America_ with one leg. He could not be anything with one leg.

He clawed at the blankets where his knee should have been, unable to repress a sob. And then another. Puncturing the thin mattress, he held on like that would make the pain come back, like that would reawaken what had been dead for seventy years.

 _It’s gone. It’s gone_.

* * *

Lying on a couch, he ignored Stark’s entreaty to eat. Banner periodically deposited boxes of food within arm’s reach, skittering close and then retreating in terror, like Steve would turn a plastic fork into a lethal weapon. 

Steve never moved an inch, only stared at the piles of white Styrofoam, listening to the background conversation, loudly coercive. There’d been a time when he would’ve fought anybody who talked about him in earshot, but he didn’t care what was said about him.

He was visibly mutilated. There was no coming back from it, no warm lies about how everything was going to be fine because the serum was robust. He rested a hand on the remains of his leg, felt a jolt of real pain, and lurched back in horror.

It was gone in an instant, but the heart-pounding feeling of it nearly made him jump out the nearest window. 

He’d barely survived _real_ pain. He couldn’t do phantom pain. He _couldn’t_.

* * *

What made him sad wasn’t the missing leg. He was numb about it, in denial about it. It was that he’d never _seen_ the damage. Never looked at it and known, with surety, that it was as broken as it felt. He’d seen the original scans, but in polarizing black and white, there wasn’t much to read if one didn’t _know_. It could’ve been normal. They could’ve _done_ something to him, modified the scans in a desperate attempt to get his leg.

But the way Tony had offered the helmet haunted him.

“Can I see?” he asked Tony softly one evening, maybe a week after the amputation.

Tony was busy tapping on a laptop, but he paused, looked over, and said, “Uh, sure. What?”

Steve swallowed. It would take a lot of pride to admit—“You said . . . the helmet, it . . . .” He swallowed again. His throat was very dry. “I wanna see,” he said softly.

Tony handed it over, and instructed, “J.A.R.V.I.S., analyze blood flow.”

Little red and blue lines appeared all over him. He jerked in alarm, and Tony said, “It’s just the imaging. Heat flow, mostly but also a bit of sonic scanning.” A hand, mapped in the same colors, appeared in his field of view, and pointed at the void next to his missing leg. “See how there’s no lines?”

Steve couldn’t respond verbally, so he nodded. Tony squeezed his right knee comfortingly. “The heat map wasn’t—actually, J., do we _have_ a heat map for May 3, 2012?”

“Yes, sir,” J. replied. Steve jolted a little at the sound of the voice, but then he saw, on screen, a silhouette of himself. One leg was mapped in red and blue, just like it was supposed to be. The other. . . .

There were hints of red but no blue. It looked dead. It was dead.

He pried off the helmet and gripped it tightly in both hands. Tony shifted to hold his right hand—preserving the helmet, keeping _it_ intact—and when that wasn’t enough, he shifted forward, and Steve tensed as Tony wrapped his arms around him.

He didn’t—he didn’t need a hug, he—he clung to the helmet and Tony squeezed him and said, “I’m so sorry.”

An anguished noise built inside him. He crushed it down, tossing the helmet aside and gripping Tony’s shirt, anchoring himself to reality.

* * *

Tony recommended he go to therapy.

Steve resisted, insisting that his head was just fine.

Then Sam called to check in after the whole Battle of New York thing, mentioned that it had been a while since they’d talked, and Steve asked him if he was fine in the head, at which point Sam recommended he go to therapy.

So he went to therapy.

Sat across from a gentleman in street clothes and tried to bring himself to see the interaction as anything other than a plainclothes interrogation. He said, _No, sir_ and _Yes, sir_ too much. He couldn’t recall sharing one piece of meaningful information about himself. He never once mentioned the leg, the amputation, or the war, and the therapist didn’t bring it up.

The therapist finally prompted gently, “And why are you here, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve responded, “Captain.” Then he didn’t see the man again.

* * *

He was becoming bony. Not eating enough, not even _wanting_ to eat. 

Tony helped him set up an appointment with a new therapist. Steve thought he’d be even more reluctant to talk to her, but he ended up liking her, because she reminded him of the gals back in the USO tour. Some of them wanted more than conversation over a late-night coffee, but others were kind and earnest, yearning for companionship. Women were nice to talk to: they never one-upped his accomplishments or questioned his right to be there. 

They chatted about how nice the city was in summertime, and he said he’d missed having the chance to have a conversation with a stranger. He told her that he still didn’t know what a wireless radio was, or even how his portable telephone really worked, or why he couldn’t go home. He rubbed the stub of his leg compulsively and asked her if she ever missed anything, and she told him that she’d moved to the city from Montana and only her practice superseded the view of sunrise in the mountains.

He asked her what she got out of her practice, and she said, “Helping people. Same as you, Captain,” and it changed how he saw the whole exercise, from a medical necessity to a form of . . . well, _healing,_ he supposed. Comforting, maybe. He actually ate a meal that night, instead of lying on the couch, wondering when his leg would grow back.

* * *

He put on weight quickly, once he started eating properly again, which elevated him from occasionally huggable to frequently huggable. Well. _Tony_ hugged him.

Tony hugged him a lot, which Steve was fairly sure was a Tony thing, and not a ‘this is for Steve’ thing, which amused him more than it annoyed him. Tony said he was the most huggable person he’d ever met, in a tone that implied it would be criminal for Tony _not_ to embrace him three times a day, occasionally knocking on his guest room door right before midnight to say, “Almost forgot” and hugging him gently before walking off without so much as a _Goodnight_.

The boys in the camp had been big on casual touches, grabbing his hand, squeezing his shoulder. He’d never been a _hugger_ before the war, but a lot of scared kids needed it, so he provided it. When Captain America hugged you, you knew you were gonna be okay, and imagining that as Tony’s motivation for hugging him, he made a point of tentatively initiating at least one of those three hugs per day.

Tony had a metal plate—more like a metal _cup_ , the _depth_ of the thing was surreal, and it appalled and amazed Steve that it rested _inside Tony’s chest_ —that made his hugs very different. Not _bad_ , nothing like bad. But he could see why Bruce grimaced when Tony hugged him, why Tony, who seemed to crave hugs, took pleasure in hugging Steve, especially. Exclusively—he seemed to hug Steve nearly exclusively, like he was afraid of how others would react, or maybe just disliked how it felt, pressed against his bones, his beating heart so near it.

Steve didn’t let absolutely anyone near his left leg; he couldn’t imagine letting someone touch his _heart_. It was brave, and he told Tony as much, who blinked at him, then skittered off with a lie about a beeping oven, and burnt a batch of cookies just to make the lie a truth.

They were still good cookies, Steve thought, eating a charcoal-black piece that might have been a chocolate chip cookie, once upon a time.

Tony’s commitment to a lie was strangely endearing, even if his reason _for_ lying made Steve want to say, _You’re brave, you know?_ again.

* * *

One cane wasn’t enough, so he had two canes. They were less showy than crutches, but they forced him to hunch over when he walked, and he hated it. Even the short walk from the couch to the kitchen was often unbearable.

He was finally out of pain, but the sight of nothing where something was supposed to be paralyzed him. He yearned for it so intensely it was like a sickness; he dreamed of running. Again and again, he found himself tall and proud, _Captain America_ , with a necrotic leg bringing him down from his hill and back to reality.

_Could it have been saved?_

_By our best speculation . . . no._

They had been wrong, over and over, and he couldn’t help but _wonder_ , imagining treatment that worked, imagining running again. He awoke and grabbed his canes—he refused to even think of them as crutches, despite appearances—and got up, because he couldn’t bear to lie down. 

On those nights, he limped to Tony’s room, and knocked on the door carefully. Tony answered and greeted him with a hug, careful not to knock him off-balance. Like he could heal Steve with hugs, and Steve swallowed as he realized maybe the hugs _were_ for him, after all.

Maybe they were for both of them.

They played cards, even though Tony kept falling asleep on his hand, and then Steve let him sleep on his folded arms and played Solitaire for a while.

Once upon a time, he could have carried Tony to bed, if he so desired. He could have carried anything in his arms. But he needed both hands for his canes.

Trapped in his own body, he scraped his chair back gently. Then propped himself up on his canes and tapped a snoring Tony on the shoulder until Tony arose and bid him goodnight once again.

* * *

The first time Tony brought up prosthetics, he felt his anger swell, resisted the urge to snap that he didn’t _need_ a new leg. He had one, and—they’d cut it off, because it was dead, and he listened to Tony, even looked at the images, and then threw up as it hit him, all over again, that he really wasn’t getting his leg back.

He didn’t bring it up with his therapist, even though he was restless about it.

He didn’t really talk about it with anyone.

 _I don’t need a new leg. This one is fine_.

* * *

“Do you want to get out of town?” Tony offered, and he said _sure_ , and they ended up in Malibu.

It was even hotter than New York, but the ocean view was breathtaking, and the pool was nice to sit in. 

Tony panicked about him in the water—Tony was panicky about a lot of things, scolding him for turning out all the lights at night, making sure the doors were locked despite J.A.R.V.I.S.’s repeated assurances, and occasionally going on long rants about the most inconsequential of things—but Tony took special exception to his interest in the water. He seemed on the verge of telling Steve to get out and stay out before coming up with a compromise.

Steve didn’t _love_ the compromise, but Tony insisted it would help him sleep at night, so Steve hooked an arm through the float ring and drifted into deeper water until Tony poked him repeatedly with a cleaning stick to return to the shallow end.

Steve did so, then retaliated by ducking under the water and paddling over to the deep end using his arms, which was surprisingly easy to do, but as soon as he resurfaced, Tony squawked, “ _Steve_ ” and attempted to half-aid, half-drown him with the cleaning stick, now with bonus net. Steve couldn’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of it, slipping under the net and giving it a warning tug. 

It came loose—Tony was evidently taking _zero_ chances of getting pulled into the water with him, and then Steve stroked back to the opposite side of the pool, pulling himself out easily.

The pool wasn’t just nice—the pool was _great_.

* * *

Tony chucked pool noodles at him and insisted he used them, so he did, bundling two of them under his chest and drifting along peacefully, almost dozing. 

When Tony brought home a giant inflatable flamingo, Steve rebuked, “ _Tony_ ,” but Tony just chucked it into the pool with him.

“This is your punishment,” he sniffed.

“Why am I being punished?” Steve asked.

Tony grumbled inconclusively and sat on one of the poolside chairs. 

“I don’t need a lifeguard,” Steve informed him, aware of Tony’s strongly negative feelings towards pools. He didn’t know _why_ , but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Tony Stark hated pools. He didn’t even seem to like the _ocean_ , which made his multi-million dollar estate on a gorgeous, isolated stretch of oceanfront either funny or sad.

“You have one leg. If you drown, it’s on my conscience,” Tony grunted, furiously snapping open a _paperback_.

Steve paddled over, nudging the floating flamingo out of the way, and rested his arms on the edge of the pool. “Well, if you’re so concerned, you should come in.”

Tony visibly tensed. “I should think not,” he quipped, like Steve had threatened to jump in a volcano, glaring around his book at Steve. “Now leave me alone, you heathen.”

Experimenting a little, in a pleasantly playful mood from listening to the ocean and relaxing in the pool, Steve splashed around frantically for a few seconds, careful not to chuck gallons of water out of the pool but putting up a real fuss.

Tony bolted out of his chair, but instead of running towards the water, he crashed into the glass door, slid it back, and fled indoors.

Sinking a little lower in the water in remorse, Steve thought, _S’about how well my overtures usually go_ , and drifted over to the giant flamingo, hooking an arm around its neck instead.

He hauled up onto it, flopped on his back, and kicked his one foot in the water, humming, _[It's a Long Way to Tipperary](https://youtu.be/XVM-tFAdADg) _to himself.

* * *

Tony didn’t even eat _dinner_ with him.

So Steve cooked up some extra grilled cheese, left two plates on the table, and knocked on Tony’s door. “Tony?”

Tony fake-snored. Steve knew because Tony’s actual snoring was fairly quiet, even with Steve’s super-sensitive hearing. “I know you’re in there,” Steve added, then, less on the offensive: “I made dinner.” There was a brief pause in the snoring, before it resumed at the same volume. “I’d bring it, but—” He scowled at himself, adding cheerily, “Anyway. It’s grilled chee—”

Tony opened the door. He looked haunted. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding over his own shoulder. It felt . . . _good_ , to actually cook a meal. It was a challenge to get the ingredients together, but as long as he could still grip the canes firmly, he could manage.

Tony shooed him and Steve led the way down the hall, hyper-aware of each firm _thump_ from his canes.

Steve was on his first bite when Tony said abruptly, “They drowned me,” and resumed eating his sandwich at a frantic pace. “I, um. I have strong feelings. About it. Not good ones.” He chuckled at himself, then finished, “So, ah. Don’t do that. Ever again. Or else.” Wincing, he finished his sandwich, shoved his chair back, and said, “Okay, good ta—”

“Tony.” Steve struggled to his—foot, after him. It was hard—put down the sandwich, move the chair back, balance, grab the crutches, _canes_ —but then Tony was there, hugging him again, giving him a bit of a lean-to. He sighed, leaft his canes against the table, and very carefully balanced on one foot, wrapping his own arms around Tony.

“What do you mean, _they_?” he finally asked, horrified at the thought of _S.H.I.E.L.D._ doing something like—

It wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D., thankfully, although Steve still struggled to finish his sandwich as Tony narrated his time in Afghanistan. It was worse than he’d thought— _I was tortured by terrorists,_ a belated memory—but it seemed good for Tony to talk about it. And good for Steve to hear it. _This is my necrosis_ , he didn’t say, patting the arc reactor. _This is my killing wound_.

Steve asked him if he’d ever get it removed. “Can’t,” Tony said. “It—the surgery, the tissue, there’s—really, this is easiest.”

After a long, long beat where Steve almost backed down, almost said, _Goodnight, Tony_ , and retreated to his own room, Steve asked slowly, “Can you show me the prosthetics?”

Christmas morning smiles were not as bright as the look Tony gave him, then.

* * *

Tony had plenty of contacts in Malibu.

At first, Steve thought he was . . . almost betraying S.H.I.E.L.D., not to lean into their incredible resources—they _had_ uniced him, after all—but it was a lot more relaxing to talk with a biotech company that Tony vouched for, a CEO that Tony _laughed_ with. That was a good feeling, Steve thought, as he shook hands with the guy and walked around his _lab_. 

It was only halfway through the meeting that Steve realized neither of the guy’s legs were real, and he had to ask for the restroom so he didn’t cry in front of them, because that was— _good_.

Metal was a second life. Metal was _good_.

Sure, the canes were—effective. He’d get used to them, he told himself, but the—the _idea_ of it, of being something other than—than— _an undesirable_ , oh. It spoke to him.

He spent a little too long composing himself, because Tony finally asked, “You good, champ?” and he hastened to vacate the stall and pretend his face wasn’t splotchy.

Tony said, “I really think hotrod red is your color,” and grinned back at him as Steve chuckled, dabbing at his eyes messily with cold wet paper towels. “Throw in a little gold, it’s on brand.”

“Yes,” he deadpanned, once he was confident he didn’t look like he’d been bawling, “ _my_ brand.”

Tony winked.

* * *

Getting fitted for a prosthetic leg took more courage than Steve was expecting.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, rubbing the remains of his left leg protectively. He didn’t let anyone—he didn’t even let _Tony_ , and he trusted Tony with his life—touch it. It was the weakest part of himself, literally, and it was vulnerable, and it was—they had to fit a leg to it. He could just snatch one up, pop it on, and walk out a new man. 

It had to be fitted. There was _training_. It all seemed overwhelming, but the image of the man with two metal feet clung to him. They hadn’t even _looked_ like feet, but the way he’d maneuvered on them, smooth and confident, was addictive.

 _You survived the serum_ , he rebuked himself. How hard could it be, to let another person handle his leg? It didn’t even _hurt_ anymore. He had nothing to fear.

Lounging on the flamingo, he thought at the sky, _I can’t do this_ , and kicked his right leg in the water absently. He liked the _movement_ of it, aching to do more, to jump, to _sprint_ , God, he’d sell both kidneys and an arm just to _run_ again. Gaining the serum had unlocked a world of mechanical pleasures for him, and losing half of them in one fell swoop was almost harder than learning everyone he’d known and loved was dead.

It was harder to adapt to a missing leg than the new world, he thought bitterly.

* * *

Tony tried to help, offered to put off an appointment as long as he wanted, but Steve missed New York, missed some sense of familiarity, despite the appeals of sunny Malibu.

So he swallowed his pride, said, “Let’s do it,” and resolved to stick to the date. 

He was so goddamn _nervous_ , and the phantom pains were more frequent, driving him up a wall. Chafing indoors, he limped along on his canes as quickly as he dared on the long stretch of road outside the mansion, even wandering down to the beach—a disaster, the sand was impossible to navigate and he ended up flat on his face and humiliated. 

Struggling upright was a chore, and the sand was _still_ a mess to navigate, but he did make it back onto flat land on his own.

He was proud of what he _could_ do, even if it took a little creativity. Table soccer was hardly a graceful sport in real life, but he learned how to foosball everything from stray t-shirts to the one Roomba that seemed determined to trip him up without breaking any walls or his own ass. 

He fell, more often than he would ever admit, but the bruises didn’t last, and he had yet to break an arm. _That would be my luck_ , he thought, pinned to a chair because he’d punted a banana into his own hand.

Tony came running if he was around when it happened, but he had the grace to stand back and let Steve leverage himself upright, looking concerned and slightly out of breath—running was _not_ Tony’s friend, but if he resented having two functional legs, he never shared it—but not overwhelmingly angry that Steve had nearly killed himself shooing a Roomba that decided to zip under him at the last moment.

“What was it this time?” Tony asked knowingly. “Roomba? I’ll disable them—”

“No,” Steve grunted. “They’re fine.” Getting up was always the worst part, and Tony _was_ around . . . with a sigh, Steve extended a hand towards him, and Tony gratefully stepped in, gripping it with both his own and _hauling_. “Thanks,” he said, planting his canes firmly.

Tony snuck in a brief, _Glad you’re safe_ hug, reiterated aloud, “Glad you’re safe,” and turned to leave. Then he asked, “You wanna see my lab?”

It seemed like one of those invitations that was equally for Tony as Steve, but Steve _was_ curious, so he nodded and followed along. The stairs were a bit treacherous—more than once, Steve thought, _I am going to break my nose_ —but they made it downstairs safely.

Then they spent seven hours going over all of Tony’s toys—his robots, his Iron Man suits, and his _cars_. “You can totally drive with one leg,” Tony said, and Steve cast him a look before Tony wheedled, “It’s private property for two miles.

Caving to curiosity, Steve slid very carefully into the driver’s seat of the nicest car he had ever even sat in, let alone been invited to _drive_ , and caught Tony’s assurance that, “J. can take over if you lose your nerve, so don’t worry about it.”

Steve started out at a crawl, but his right leg was fine, his right leg was perfect, and it wasn’t long before he was gliding with confidence down the road.

“I just realized, you definitely don’t have a valid license.”

“Yeah, that’s the most concerning thing about a one-legged man driving,” Steve agreed.

Tony laughed, one arm slung along the open window, the hood of the car down to let in the breeze. “I mean, it _is_ ,” Tony insisted. “Give it a little gas, it’ll be fine. I have survived. . . .” He counted off his hands, finished, “Four car crashes. That’s a great number. I can’t break that streak.”

Steve pressed down on the accelerator gently, watching the speedometer creep past sixty. The wind in his hair was thrilling. Tony propped both feet up on the dash, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly, apparently for the hell of it.

“Turn here,” Tony suggested, and then: “Come on, give it a little _gas_.”

Zipping down the straight road, Steve thought, _This is definitely better than the old cars_ , as they glided along, smooth as _glass_. It steered incredibly easily, too, the lightest touch enough to make the car comply. “That’s a hell of a ride,” he remarked, sometime around the forty-minute mark. “They don’t make these like they used to!”

* * *

It was nearing sunset when they rolled up to a drive-thru diner and split a pair of milkshakes. Steve hadn’t intended to share, but Tony said, “Let me try that,” and Steve automatically passed his strawberry shake to him. “Here,” he conceded, passing along his own shake, a rich chocolate that almost made Steve regret his original choice.

It was real nice to sit in a parking lot, Steve behind the wheel, Tony easygoing and chatty beside him. He didn’t worry about his civic duty or even the prospect of getting a new leg. Right then, he felt whole—wanting nothing, having everything.

As Tony slurped down the remains of his own milkshake, Steve said honestly, “Thank you, Tony.”

Flapping his free hand, Tony finally said, “Thank me not,” and instructed, “I just really wanted two milkshakes.”

But he put a hand on Steve’s right thigh, squeezed it, before pointing ahead of the open windshield and instructing, “Mush!”

* * *

“Thank you,” Steve said again, as they abandoned the lab for the living room, where the flat-screen television was playing a movie he didn’t recognize.

Tony shrugged modestly, flopped down against his side, and said, “Uh-huh. Thanks for running away to Malibu with me.” Then he buried his face in Steve’s belly and started snoring for real.

Deeply content, Steve enjoyed the show on his own, trying and failing not to laugh at the born-and-bred New _Yawhkers_ on trial in Alabama for a crime they didn’t commit.

It felt like home. It really felt like home.

Tony snuffled awake at a particularly boisterous laugh, muttered, “Oh, hey, _My Cousin Vinny_ ,” and promptly fell back asleep without another word.

Steve . . . maybe, kind of loved him.

* * *

Maybe, kind of, a lot loved him.

He loved when Tony joined him on the pool deck, even if he wouldn’t touch the pool, chucking a foam football back and forth while Steve lounged on the godforsaken flamingo.

He loved when Tony showed him old footage of the Iron Man suit construction, insisting on making popcorn and allowing Dum-E to wheel over and “watch” alongside them.

He loved that Tony shared his burnt cookies; that Tony gave him midnight hugs; that Tony showed up for his prosthetic fitting as promised for moral support.

He could not say _why_ he loved watching Tony struggle, sleep-drunk, to tie his left shoe on his right foot, but he loved it. There was something . . . wonderfully real about Tony Stark’s life, and how easily he invited Steve into it, like he was as eager for the companionship as Steve.

* * *

Maybe he was, Steve mused, as they sat around a fire pit on the deck, enjoying a little extra warmth on a cool night. Maybe he was.

“This is why people elope,” Tony said suddenly, snapping his fingers and saying, “to be free. No one to tell you _no_ , or where to go, or say—that’s a song from _Aladdin_.”

Steve didn’t even know what _Aladdin_ was. “I love you,” he said honestly.

Tony swallowed, then held up a pointer finger like he was about to make a point, before lowering it. He blinked at Steve, surprised. “You—” Frowning sternly, he reframed, “That,” and then, finally, stood up, stepped right up, held Steve’s head in both hands, and said very seriously, “Dork.”

Steve grinned up at him, heart all warm and fuzzy, enjoying the light blush that warmed Tony’s face, visible in the ambient light from the fireplace. “Can you kiss me already?” he murmured, as Tony, thunderstruck, stared down at him like he was still trying to parse out, _I_ and _love_ and _you_ , not necessarily in that order. _You love me?_

Blinking, Tony said, “Sure,” and all but crashed into him. Steve smiled a little, unable to help himself, and Tony muttered, “Dork,” again and kissed him properly.

* * *

Getting a new leg was so much more than one fitting, one trial, one tentative test run. It was hours of practice and consultations and practice just to get his new legs under him.

But that first _moment_. . . .

Oh, it was strange, watching them fit his terribly small stump with a sock and a covering and finally, finally the new leg. To Tony’s teasing disappointment, it was solid black. He’d wavered between realistic and robotic before settling on a middle grounds option, a sleek design that required a double-glance to even notice, unlike some of the more exotic designs.

Tony had already told him he’d be happy to splurge for multiple legs, but Steve . . . as soon as he fitted on the black leg, saw it, he felt a wave of euphoria, a weakness and joy so powerful it nearly paralyzed him. “C’mon,” Tony teased, as the fitter helped him figure out how to _stand_.

There would be a thousand joyful moments of discovering his new legs—standing up on tiptoe again, jogging along a sandy beach again, jogging along _any_ stretch of land again, running, _running_ —but few things compared to standing up, both hands on the silver bars at waist-height for support, and slowly, slowly getting the instructions to take his first step.

First with the right leg, the good leg. Easy. Easy. Heart pounding, he heard, “And now with the left. Just take it slow, push down on the heel.”

He lifted his new left leg—somehow, just the right amount of weight hanging from the stump that it hugged, the last part of him still attached—and set it down slowly, slowly, easy, easy.

His first step was small, nothing to write home about, in any other context. But the men who walked on the Moon did baby steps, too. And neither he nor Tony Stark was alive to see it happen in real time.

But Tony was right at his side as Steve Rogers walked again on his own two legs, and the tears in Tony’s eyes were perfect.

* * *

Steve cried, too. He joked that his prosthetic was just a sonuvagun with a direct link to his tears, but really, he was just so damn _happy_.

He could run again, and reach tall shelves, and even _somersault_. It took a lot of practice—and Tony was there to put an arm around his shoulders and steady him, and seemed to particularly relish the chance to hug him without fear of overbalancing him, getting a running start just to show off how newly well-balanced Steve was—but it was a fun learning curve. Every new victory was celebrated. Every new lap was a joy.

He ran as often as he could, pounding down the pavement or the sand. He longed for grass, and even the city, but he looked fondly at the great pink flamingo floating around the pool, a reminder of times gone.

Carefully slipping his shirt and the prosthetic off, he slunk into the pool, hauled himself up onto the flamingo, and basked one last time, kicking his right foot joyfully.

 _I am whole_ , he thought, rubbing his stump of a leg almost fondly, a little sore from romping around so much but not bad. Strong. _Strong_. The serum had made and kept him strong, even when it had failed him, and he knew he had a life ahead of him, a _good_ life.

Tony still yelled at him for playing in the pool unsupervised, and Steve grinned and whistled _Yankee Doodle_ in response, wondering what he’d truly done to deserve all this.

* * *

 _You’re the ace in our hand_ , Coulson once said, and as Captain America, his metal leg in plain view, stepped onto the world stage again, he felt glad that people noticed his new leg, glad that they even noticed how little of his original leg was left. 

Tony got so many letters from fans on a daily basis that he rarely read them, even though they were carefully screened. But Steve made a point of opening the ones addressed to him, reading about veterans who had lost something in combat, saw pictures of men and women of all ages—even _children_ —flexing their own metal arms and legs. A few had even painted the Stars and Stripes on them, which gave him an _idea_. . . .

Paint was definitely a messier medium, but he was quite happy with the results. The shield looked nice on his leg, right over the most painful part of the former wound.

 _I am better now_ , he thought, massaging his leg as he set the prosthetic gently aside. _I am whole_ , he thought proudly, looking at the stump of a leg and patting it once.

He showed his therapist his new leg, and she told him that the superhero life suited him.

He grinned and told him he’d tried it on and found himself of the same opinion.

* * *

“C’mon!” Sam howled, as Steve lapped him for a third time.

“Gotta keep up, old man!” he shouted over his shoulder, bolting towards the Washington Memorial with joy in his heart and two powerful legs beneath him.

* * *

“I would miss your nightlight,” Steve said honestly, as they were lying in bed together, looking at the reflection of blue-white light on the ceiling.

“I confess, I miss Captain Foosball,” Tony admitted, making Steve grumble playfully and roll over, squishing him with a squeak. “God, you’re so heavy.”

“Hey,” Steve grumbled. “I lost twenty pounds. All in one leg, but—”

“You’re _so heavy_ ,” Tony wheezed dramatically. He wrapped his arms firmly around Steve’s back, then said, “I will simply get _so strong_ I am immune to how heavy you are.”

Kissing his cheek briefly, Steve rolled back off of him. Tony chased him, cuddling into his side, and sighed, “Ah. Order is restored.”

Humming, Steve agreed, “Happy endings all around.”

“I do love you,” Tony insisted.

“I know,” Steve assured, curving his arm around to cup the back of his neck. “I know, Tony. S’why I stick around.”

“Damn. And here I thought it was my devilishly good looks.”

Chuckling, Steve kissed his forehead, insisted, “Shh. Lights out. Bedtime.”

“Can’t turn this light out,” Tony preened, squirming around to tap the arc reactor. “ _Hah_.”

Sighing, Steve said fondly, “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Tony.”

And he meant it.

Tony curved a leg around his, said, “You too, big guy,” and Steve knew he meant it, too.


End file.
